Sylvia Wheeler

I like a long view,
prairies, not cities,
though a dark cranny appeals.
The mystery of another,
and being alone.
The hard yellow seed
the long armed cactus offers,
the urge to grasp its thorns.
The swim of trilobites caught
in granite mud.
The grief of knowledge. The lingering
of those I loved.
The long line of prose.
The short truth of poetry.

fire abstract